At the look he fixed upon her, - a look full of love, resolution, and
despair, even, - she knew how readily the comte, so outwardly calm in
appearance, would pass his sword through his own breast if she added
another word. She tore the blade from his hands, and, pressing his arm
with a feverish impatience, which might pass for tenderness, said, "Do
not be too hard upon me, comte. You see how I am suffering, and yet you
have no pity for me."

Tears, the cries of this strange attack, stifled her voice. As soon as
De Guiche saw her weep, he took her in his arms and carried her to an
armchair; in another moment she would have been suffocated.

"Oh, why," he murmured, as he knelt by her side, "why do you conceal your
troubles from me? Do you love any one - tell me? It would kill me, I
know, but not until I should have comforted, consoled, and served you
even."

"And do you love me to that extent?" she replied, completely conquered.

"I do indeed love you to that extent, Madame."

She placed both her hands in his. "My heart is indeed another's," she
murmured in so low a tone that her voice could hardly be heard; but he
heard it, and said, "Is it the king you love?"

She gently shook her head, and her smile was like a clear bright streak
in the clouds, through which after the tempest has passed one almost
fancies Paradise is opening. "But," she added, "there are other passions
in a high-born heart. Love is poetry; but the real life of the heart is
pride. Comte, I was born on a throne, I am proud and jealous of my